The Best of Intentions
by eyecyou
Summary: A drabble where Morrigan takes it upon herself to try to do something nice for a lovesick friend.


(A longer drabble, wherein Morrigan attempts to do something nice-ish for a lovesick friend.)

Leliana and the smaller of the wardens, the mage Sevarra, had left camp while eagerly chatting about something. If they'd been heard correctly, shoes were being discussed, of all things. Wynne had gone along with them to search for some herbs, as the camp's supply of elfroot had started to look a bit thin. Morrigan shook her head. She didn't see the need for "pretty" footwear and didn't enjoy the company of the elderly Circle mage.

Alistair and Sten had been directed to go out and check the traps that had been laid out the previous day. Perhaps there would be a rabbit or two for the stew pot when they got back. She suspected Alistair brought the mabari, Fang, along with him to act as a buffer between himself and the qunari.

With the rest of the part out foraging, that left Morrigan and the elf, Zevran, to watch over the camp. Zevran had stared after Sevarra's group for several minutes until the trio had faded from sight. With not much to occupy his time, he'd sat down and set about cleaning and sharpening his blades by the embers of last night's campfire.

"Tis a bit sickening, the way you two stare at each other." the daughter of the Witch of the Wilds drawled as she sat down on the opposite side of the embers, pretending to scan over a page in the book on her lap.

The elf merely cocked an eyebrow and continued to sharpen a dagger. "I know not of what you're talking about, my good lady."

"You. And our fair warden. Making googly eyes at one another when one thinks the other is not looking." Morrigan continued.

"Alas, Alistair's feelings shall have to remain unrequited, then," Zevran quipped, examining the edge of his dagger before oiling the blade.

"Last I noticed, it was not Alistair's backside that you were so raptly staring at."

"Mmph. What's the harm in observing the beauty of my surroundings?' he steadfastly did not look at Morrigan and instead set to examining ever millimeter of his long sword's edges.

"So you do admit to staring," the witch smirked.

"I will do no such thing."

"She smiles, you know. When staring at you."

He did not reply, instead putting his whetstone to use again.

She grumbled inwardly before continuing. Something was going to happen, one way or another, if the witch had her way.

"It is very plain to see that the girl likes you, you know. Perhaps plain to everyone but yourself. Or perhaps you just enjoy the attention?"

He furrowed his brows and carefully oiled the long sword's blade, remaining silent.

"Feeling shy? Perhaps conflicted? Tis understandable. We mages can be a bit intimidating. Granted, our fair Warden is a much more patient soul than I. I've yet to see her turn anyone into a toad. Not even a certain someone who'd been contracted to dispose of her and her fellow Warden."

He favored her with a withering look before beginning to inspect and clean his stash of throwing knives. It had no effect, as she smirked and pressed on.

"If you are waiting for her to make the first move, you will be waiting a very long time, indeed. The Circles of Magi and their Chantry masters are not known for encouraging mages to pursue things of a romantic nature. Our dear Sevarra had been in the Circle for nearly her entire life before now. Think about that."

The pair fell into silence, Morrigan reading from her book in earnest.

"Why bother saying anything? Why tell me these things?' he said after an indeterminate period of time.

She did not lift her golden eyes from the page she had been reading.

"She is my friend. A friend with a heavy task on her shoulders. Shouldn't she be allowed some bit of happiness along the way?"

Before he could reply, the sound of trudging feet and excited barking entered the camp. Fang bounded around the perimeter before sitting near the embers, his stump of a tail wagging as if it were a wing determined to take flight.

"Yes, yes, alright. Here you go! Who's a good boy?" Alistair laughed and tossed a fresh bone to the hound. The man had what appeared to be six dead rabbits in a bundle in one arm. Sten pulled up the rear, holding a sack of freshly butchered meat.

"We got really lucky. Fang here found us a deer for the pot. All but one of the traps had something edible, too." the ginger man grinned.

"That black and white animal with the strong smell, what was it called again?" the qunari inquired.

Alistair wrinkled his nose. "Skunk. That was a skunk. We'll let that trap air out for a while before retrieving it."

The group had fallen into the task of preparing the rabbits and deer meat for what seemed like hours when the three remaining members of the group finally made their return.

"...and that is why powdered wigs were popular among the nobles back in Orlais." Leliana chuckled as she and Sevarra came upon the others. Wynne trailed behind them, shaking her head and clutching a very full sack of herbs.

Zevran pretended to not watch the women, busying himself with flint and tinder to start a new fire in the pit. From the corner of his eye, he saw Sevarra brush a stray lock of hair from her face and smile in his direction. He slowly turned around and rose to greet the newcomers. Sevarra blushed and rapidly turned her gaze towards Fang. Always eager for a belly rub, the hound flopped himself at the short mage's feet and rolled around.

Perhaps the witch speaks the truth? he thought to himself.

That evening, after supper had been demolished, he set out for the corner of the camp that the soft spoken mage kept her tent. He found her sitting cross-legged in front of her tent, reading a tome by the light of a wisp hovering over her shoulder.

"Oh, h-hello." she looked up from her book after several moments. "I hadn't heard you coming."

He tisked. "That could be a bad thing, were you not in friendly company." He tilted his head and asked, "If I may be so bold, what sort of book has you distracted to the point of not being aware of your surroundings, hm?" Without waiting for an invitation, he claimed a patch of ground near her and sat down.

She blushed and her grey eyes shot to the ground in front of her. "A collection of old poetry from the Tevinter Imperium," she managed to stammer.

He cocked an eyebrow and grinned. "What do you know of Antivan poetry?"

"N-nothing, sadly." she replied.

"You'll know even less after this," he laughed and recited a poem once told to him by a target. Sevarra guffawed upon hearing the story behind it. She wore a smile and kept her gaze on him for the rest of the conversation, apparently at ease. Time seemed to move impossibly fast, and they soon found themselves the only ones awake, save for Sten, who'd begun his shift at watch.

After sleepily bidding one another good night, Sevarra watched the assassin as he strolled to his tent, sighing wistfully. The dull ache in her chest only grew more incessant as she thought about the conversation while curled up in her bedroll.

What a cruel joke by the Maker, she thought. To want someone so badly and not be able to do a damned thing about it. To have a need that had to remain unquenched because of what she was. After seeing the abominations in her old home in the Circle, and rescuing what survivors could be found, she questioned the wisdom of risking bringing yet more magi into the world. Uncaring for her attempt at denial, the ache followed her into her dreams.


End file.
